Tangled
by demondreaming
Summary: Sequel to Hooked. You could tear her apart as surely as she tore you. You've worked with careful fingers, you've weaved a web she's wandered into, and the only thing left for you to do is sink your fangs into her twitching form. So why don't you?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Victorious is not mine, nor are any of the letters.**

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"Tori-" Cat moans your name. It's an ache of a sound.

And it means nothing to you.

The first time, the second time. The tenth time. It meant something then. The letters of your name littered her lips, and together they spelled 'victory'. Each time your name got a little louder in her lungs, a little deafer in your ears. You barely hear it at all anymore. It's like you're just watching a silent film now, the only sound the click and clatter of the film running through the reel. You have to watch her lips just to know what she's saying. She's just a subtitle at the bottom of your shuddering frame.

Her body is slight under you, all softness and warm, but you know her bones are sharp and cold under the skin. She hides herself so well. She's full of jagged edges beneath her silken sheet of skin. You remember when her body was a work of art to you. One you were almost too afraid to touch for fear of smudging it, smearing the wet clay of her anatomy. But she's a statue that hardened before you ever even came along. She's withstood harder touches than yours. These days, you try to leave a mark.

Your lips whisper over Cat's collarbone, breath bleeding hot into her skin. With a huff, you could blow right through her, send her crashing down. You know you could. You could tear her apart as surely as she tore you. You've worked with careful fingers, you've weaved a web she's wandered into, and the only thing left for you to do is sink your fangs into her twitching form.

You plant a kiss over the raised ridge of bone, instead. Her fingers are trying so hard to please you, Cat's forearm shivering against your stomach, cables of muscles twanging with her movements. Your own hand is stroking her slowly, motions measured. Mechanical. You know the right ratios to give her. She's a recipe that you've memorised, it's just a matter of letting her boil until she bubbles over. This is your revenge, and it's served ice cold.

You're not a fish anymore, not some gaping guppy, Cat's metal claws sunk into your lips. That was her game. Go fish. It's one you've refused to play anymore, sick and tired of losing, losing everything. You've set up the stakes so you can win this one, but you're starting to realise there's no thrill in playing a game you can't lose at. You wonder where Cat got all her satisfaction from, all her amusement. But maybe that little smile of hers meant something else entirely. Maybe she's been playing to lose all along. Or maybe her prize was just of a different kind. Your victory doesn't excite you like it should. Her stumbling hands and hesitant pleas. 'Can I touch you?'. They should warm you up, more than the hotness of her mouth, more than the wet heat between her legs ever did. But all the hooks she sank in you left you a sieve once you tore them out. You can't keep anything in there. Your heart is empty, and you don't know how to patch the leaks.

Your hips jerk forward into Cat's hand, a soft grunt muffled by Cat's tan skin. She smells like vanilla. A perfume you told her to wear, just to see if she'd do it, if she'd bow and bend under a meaningless demand. She'd done it with a smile, sprayed it on her wrists, her throat, and you'd smiled and tried to pretend it made her more appealing to you. The vanilla is cloying now, harsh and artificial. You'd rather the smell of her, the scent you found so intoxicating when being with her hurt in such a pleasant way. The animal scent of her skin, of blood and warmth and sweat and just HER. All you can smell now is that chemical vanilla, mixed with your own sweat. She smells like you.

Cat stiffens underneath you, subtly. A soft shudder, a small roll of her hips. It's not the grasping passion with which you used to make her come. There's no passion at all. Not on your part. It was appalling how little effort it took. How little you'd had to do to get on even ground with her. You hadn't even realised you'd just been kneeling all along. All you had to do was stand, spine straight. Your hand, that even now so deftly twists inside her, had coaxed her forward. Dropped crumbs of fantasy, of promises you never could keep when you cared. A curl of the finger is all it ever took with Cat. You'd just had to learn to curl it the right way.

Your name splits her lips again. A caress, not a curse. She doesn't love you. You might be standing now, but your even ground is a hill. Cat will never sink as low as you. She knows what you're trying to do. You might have made a new game, but you've copied from her rules. It makes it even more infuriating, that she knows what you're doing and she's falling for it anyway, and it was all too easy. You've wrapped your web around her, thick and tight, and it's kept you from seeing what's really under there. What she really is. Because if she's playing the loser willingly, maybe she's not stuck to your web at all. Maybe she's just plucking the strings and sending you scuttling, searching for her. You spend your life waiting for her. Maybe things haven't changed as much as you thought.

Your victory is falling apart at your feet, and your toes curl with it as you come. You don't say her name. You don't need to. Your teeth imprint it into her flesh, your hips jump against her with the cadence of it. She doesn't love you, and you don't love her, so what are you doing? Why are you still here, still enraptured in her? What point are you trying to prove? That you can be just as cold as her? You're getting frostbite just from trying.

You roll off her, sweat sticking your skin together slickly. Cat shifts to face you, a hand playing over your shoulder, tickling the skin, and it's a casual touch that would've meant so much to you before. A small sign of regard, of care. Maybe all it is now is the greeting of an equal. She leans forward, a soft kiss pressed on your cheek. There's a smile in them that sears your skin, and you can't stop the flex in your fingertips where they touch over her back.

You were a spider to get her. You grew eyes to watch her, to see every little change in her. You grew more limbs to touch her, to stroke her. You weaved your web with the utmost skill, and you steered her into it, gently, gently. You've read in biology, seen in a video that sent your spine crawling, that there are spiders who clad themselves in camouflage. Who look like the very prey they hunt, who look harmless until their fangs come out. That's what you tried to be, some harmless hunter. And when she was firmly tangled in your trap, you'd rip off your mask, your hard shell of armour, and you'd let her see what a husk you really are now. How there's nothing left underneath your exoskeleton. The only thing that fills you now is venom. But if you're a spider in this game, then Cat's a wasp. There are no assurances she'll be the one tied up and waiting. One stab where your heart used to be, and she'll be the victor. It all depends on whose poison is more potent.

"I miss you, Tori."

Your roaming gaze snaps onto her face, brow crinkling. "Miss what?"

"You." A tiny smile perches on Cat's pink lips, syllable dropping sweetly. "You're not here."

Your spittle sticks in your throat, tripped up by a hard lump. She's right, you're not here. Your lights are on but you're not home. You're not the girl who trembled just to touch Cat. Who'd give in to every whispered 'touch me'. You're not your heart, you're what's left over, and you thought that's what she wanted. No. No, you don't care what she wanted. That's not why you numbed yourself. You didn't do it so you could stand to be with her, you did it because you could. You had to. Not for her, but for yourself.

Not for her.

What Cat wants is your heart, and there was a time when even knowing she wanted anything from you but your mouth and your fingers would've sent you shivering. Now she wants something that's gone. She wants a part of you, a part of your past, and it's not one you made her want. She misses the softer side of you, the weak side she loved to flex her claws in. Isn't that what you wanted? To make her care? Shouldn't that make you happy?

All it does is make you tired.

"I'm here, Cat." The words are murmured, hummed over the back of your tongue, and you'd wish you'd rolled them around your mouth first to take off those raw, rough edges that coat them.

Her eyes narrow slightly, dark and unreadable, flicking over you with a light touch. They scrape your skin, like they're searching for something hidden underneath. Scratching away the dust to see what glitters beneath, but all she'll find is blood and bone. She purses her lips, fingertips coming to touch over your jawline, tilting your chin up. "You are, aren't you?" Her voice is quietly curious. Maybe she found something buried in you after all. Some relic of an arrowhead or crumbling fossil. A memory of a time when you were you.

You always thought it was about the fucking. That's all you ever do with her. At school, you're one word sentences. Even less when you're together. You speak sign language with her, and it's a single word repeated, curled inside her, tapped out until she shivers with the meaning.

Cat leans forward suddenly, her lips hovering over yours, almost touching, almost. She keeps them there, her exhale your inhale, and after a time of waiting, your eyes move from her lips upwards. A touch on your cheek closes them; almost a flinch. She's never done this before. Talked about when you were a fish with shining scales. Maybe she's waiting for you to close the gap, like you always did before, shaking with anticipation and need. There's a whisper in her breath as she kisses you finally. For a moment you think it's all in your head, so wound up from expecting her lips that you imagined them, so light is her caress. Kisses with her have always been a fight, a struggle. Clashing lips and cringing teeth and coercive tongues. Your kisses are passion, which is probably why you can't remember the last real one. You've been lacking in feeling for a long time. But this isn't fire on your lips, it's water, cool and melting. The both of you are ice, but there's warmth somewhere, slowly eroding you. This isn't the kiss of someone who doesn't care. It's far too intimate, and slow, and choking. She's never kissed you like this before. She's kissing you like you're a breath she needs to take, fresh air after a smoke-filled room. She's kissing you liked you used to dream of, in your wildest and most pathetic fantasies. She's giving you what wanted, back when it was hurt and whole. You make a soft sound, a creak of splitting ice, and this one little kiss feels better than her fingers twisting inside you ever did. This isn't a motion, this is an emotion. Water's running between you, turning your breath to liquid, wet gasps of breath as she continues, soft and light and persistent. And that dribble of cold water crawls over your tongue, drips down the back of your throat, until it splashes onto your frozen sepulcher of a heart, walls cracked and crumbled. A single drop, hot with feeling, sears into the dessicated muscle.

There's a dull beat.

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**A/N: For nutellafourever, the spur that kicked me into finally writing a sequel.**

**Reviews are excellent things.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Victorious is not something I own, nor something I've ever been.**

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You bite into your sandwich with gusto, even though the chicken is lukewarm and bland and the lettuce is anything but crisp. It's not that you're hungry, and it's not that you're in anything resembling an exuberant mood. Your hollowness doesn't stem from an empty stomach. Food never fills the gap. Happiness is just another character you play now, one to mask your turmoil, to mask every motive that drives you forward. You eat with enthusiasm only because it's what you should do. It's what everyone else does when they're happy. Happy Tori. The girl you were. The girl you're supposed to be. It's a role that feels unfamiliar to you now, but it's got everyone fooled. Even Jade. You haven't forgotten her brusque words to you, her disgust that you were just like her, but somehow more pathetic, more pitiful. She helped you only out of hurt. The two of you have matching scars.

She's watching you now, a slight wrinkle in her brow. You're different. Different from the person you were, different from the person Cat broke you down into. You're an altogether different creature, and you don't think Jade's figured out what yet. She looks at Cat the same way now. There's a creeping wonder reserved for her glances at you, however. That you turned out to be more resilient than her. More capable of deceit, of cunning. There's envy in her too. That you've made Cat care. That you've made her smile at you in the sun, lean on your shoulder, hold your hand under the table. That you've done what Jade could never do. You're still not sure you've done it though. Cat's an actress too.

You chew slowly, sandwich a thick paste in your mouth. You can't help but think about that kiss. That kiss that caused more pain than anything else she's ever done. Or maybe you've just numbed yourself for so long you forgot how much it hurt to feel. Like pins and needles in a long dead limb, reawakening. You swallow thickly, food clogging in your throat. It always has trouble getting over that lump that permanently protrudes there. Her lips. You'd forgotten how soft they were, how gentle they could. That they could do more than just bruise or burn or bite. She'd kissed you so tenderly, so carefully, like you were something fragile that could be broken if she pressed too hard. You always have been, and she'd always known, but it seemed to mean something to her this time. She didn't want you broken. You'd glued the shattered pieces of yourself back together, and she'd traced her lips over every crack. Maybe she was just checking to see how good of a job you'd done. Whether there were any gaps her tongue could pick at, pry apart. It's easier for you to believe that. Safer. To think that she's still looking for some way to break you down to what you were, to pry your armour off and leave you that naked shivering girl who begged her, pleaded with her for a touch, a kiss.

You wanted her to care, didn't you? So why is it that now she's shown her first real weakness, her first vulnerability, you're so hesitant to believe that you've succeeded. You've got her to moan your name, as if the very word itself brought her pleasure. You've got her fingers to twist inside you, eager to please you. You've had her lips between your legs, tongue lapping at you like a cat does at cream. You've lured her into your web with the utmost care, the utmost gentleness, and now you're surprised she's trapped? It was almost too easy, and maybe that's why you're so skeptical. A promise of roughness, a hard voice. You were just a beginner at this. Your web had gaping holes and thin strands, but she'd stumbled in anyway, and twisted herself in what was there. Getting her body was insultingly easy, you realise, and that's why you're not satisfied. Because you were never after her body, you were after her heart. You can't help but wonder if that kiss was your first taste of it. Sweet sugar water, honey dripping on your tongue. Or maybe it was just the same old poison, sugar-coated so you'd swallow it easier.

You finish the last of the sandwich in a large bite, barely chewing it, forcing the mashed bread down with a mouthful of water. It sits in your stomach like lead, but at least it's filling. It makes you feel like there's something more than bones and cobwebs inside you. You stand with the excuse of going to the bathroom, Cat's eyes following you as you rise. She never pauses in her conversation with Andre, but at least she notices you now. At least you mean something.

You sit in the stall for a few minutes, staring at your hands. Pretending to be who you were is an effort, and one that you can't maintain. You never realised how much energy you expended just by being happy. Being sad doesn't take much at all. The bathroom is cold, the smell of disinfectant in the air. The brightness of Hollywood Arts' halls don't extend to here. Your fingers look so slim and fragile. Just bone with a glove of skin stretched over them. It's odd to think of the things they've done. How your fingertips recognise Cat's skin, how they know the topography of her body. The skin of her shoulders, tight, the softness of her breasts. The thinness of her inner thighs, like tissue, like vellum, warm and fragile. Her body is a map folded and refolded. The problem with maps, though, is that they never go beneath the surface. The route you take is only ever skin deep.

Your nails are getting long again. You remember when this thing first started, when touching Cat was still a wonder, still a longed for privilege, you used to trim your nails to the quick, to keep from ever hurting her. You didn't even want to so much as scrape her skin. She was glass, and you were loathe to leave a fingerprint. Then you started to ache, started to feel her in you, her own claws sharp and curved, but it only served to make you more meticulous. Like if only you cut them close enough, if only you did a good enough job, took away enough of your claws, that'd be enough for her to keep you. If only you cut enough of you away. You know now that she likes you to leave a mark, that she likes you to smear and smudge her, to breathe heavy breaths that fog her, to write your name in big letters, there even when the condensation fades. Just waiting for another breath from you to appear again.

You decide not to cut them, not to clip them back. Pain can pass for passion, if you close your eyes tight enough. You wash your hands when you leave the stall. Not because anyone else is in the bathroom, but because you can still feel her on you, even though you've washed and you've washed. You were never glass. You were always a sponge, soaking up everything she ever gave you. It's no wonder she gave a squeeze now and then just to see what would pour out.

You're walking through the hall, watching your feet swing, one in front of the other, when a hand slips into yours. It's warm, and soft, and you know exactly where on the map you are. It's Cat's hand, and she gives yours a squeeze. A smile dances on her lips, a flickering flame of idea, and you've no doubt she intends to burn you with it. She holds a finger to her lips, and you wonder dully what it is you're not supposed to say now. It's too easy to not say anything at all, so you follow her lead dumbly. She's slightly ahead of you, tugging you along. The world is humming along outside these walls, but all you can hear is the whisper of her skirt, the squeak of her shoes. The heavier tread of yours. She takes you into the janitor's closet, disappearing into the darkness, gilded only by the light the open door casts. You get swallowed up too, once the door shuts, her hand leaving yours. You wonder what she wants you to do to her this time. Standing, lying down, from behind, on your knees, you've wrapped yourself around her, inserted yourself into her, in every way she can think of. If fucking were a test, you'd ace it. Even Cat's hands aren't as sure as yours, but then she's accustomed to taking, not giving. Her awkwardness gives you a sense of pride.

"Where do you want me?" You ask the question in a quiet voice, waiting for the answer. The sooner you can start, the sooner it can be over. Fucking in public used to make you nervous, excited beyond belief. It made you throb with every passing footstep, every rumbling voice. There was a sort of eagerness to be found with Cat, to have people see what she let you do to her. Now there's only anxiety. If you get caught, you'll probably get expelled. You know by now that Cat isn't worth that. She isn't worth much at all.

"I want you here." Cat's voice is low too, but not demanding like you expected. Your brow furrows in confusion. It's almost... it's almost pleading. You've never heard that tone in her voice before. "Right here." A hand caresses your cheek, followed by the warmth of her body, backing you into the door, not with force, but with a mere suggestion of pressure. This isn't fire, this isn't the lashing of lips you anticipated. She's air, a breath against you. She's a feather, and she's tickling you in a way you're not sure that you like. Her lips find your cheek, a brush of a touch. "With me." Her voice melts in your ear, more honey dripped into you, and you're not sure if the sweetness is saccharine, or if it's just been so long since you tasted anything but bitterness.

"Cat- what do you want me to do?" She's put you off balance, yet again. There are few scenarios with her, and they all end the same. You've memorised this play, and now she's started improvising.

"I just want you here." Her thumb and forefinger grip your jaw, turning your face down to hers. Your eyes have adjusted enough to the dark now to make out the outlines of her face, the gleam of her eyes. She's studying you, tongue running out over her lips briefly. She gives a short nod, as if she's found what she's looking for. "Here." She says the word like it means something else, and it takes you back to the conversation you had before she kissed you the way she did. If it could be called a conversation at all. She's not talking about where she wants you to stand, or how she wants you. This isn't about your body. This is about Tori, about the girl Cat misses. The girl who died, who you thought was dead, until Cat kissed you like you were still her. The girl that Cat killed. Does she regret it? Or does she just want what she can never have. You're never the right person for her. At least now you don't care if you are or not.

Cat lets out a long breath, fingers slipping from your face. They find a place on your hip, touch light. Cat's lips find yours, in a flutter of a kiss. It draws you forward, against your will. It's a butterfly's wingbeat, it's the throb of a heart. It's teasing, but it's not meant to be. You have to meet her lips, to capture them in more than a tentative kiss. She can't kiss you like this. She can't kiss you like this is a first date. Like this means something. She can't kiss you like you've never fucked before. You can stand her hard kisses, you can stand her nails in your back. You can stand the coldness in her eyes, and the clumsiness of her hand. You can stand anything but this. You can take her claws, but you can't take this tickling. You could grit your teeth against the pain, but you can't fight the urge to laugh. You can't stop the shivering in your muscles her light touch brings. And if you laugh, it'll hurt more than her claws ever could. She broke your ribs long ago, and you'd just gotten to the point where you could sip a breath without crying out. She can't do this. How can she do this? How did she find where you buried that girl inside you?

Cat makes a muffled noise, almost a sigh as she breaks from your lips, and the sound of your lips parting is soft, but so loud, so loud in the dark, like she's ripping apart something that's joined, like the two of you are a piece of paper she's tearing in half. Slowly, so slowly. Your hands have to come to cower in front of you, unsure where to go. Her chest presses against them as she leans in again, and you can feel her heart against your hands. It's pounding, it's thudding wildly, and this isn't right. This is not right.

Her heart doesn't beat faster for you. Half the time you're not sure if it beats at all. The only time you feel it is when you're fucking her, and this is the furthest thing from fucking you've ever done with her. She's just kissing you, that's all she's doing. It's the first thing you ever did with her, it's something you've done over and over, until it lost all meaning. So why does this feel like that first time? Why does it feel better?

Cat's lips find yours again, and there's more urgency in it this time. The kiss isn't harder, but it's more insistent, it's warmer. Her lips meld to yours like they were made for the purpose. Nothing she's ever done with you has felt personal. Even your name started to feel like someone else's on her lips. She moaned your name as easily as she gasped a curse word, and it felt just the same. But this feels like- it feels like she's kissing just you. Like she's never kissed anyone else. And maybe she hasn't, maybe not like this. This is how you used to kiss her, and you wonder if she remembers that. If she could tell the difference. If she remembers the taste of your blood on her lips.

The darkness makes it harder. You almost forget it's her. No, that's not right. You know it's her, you always know. Her body's a fingerprint, and one that's left its mark on you. No, the darkness doesn't make you forget it's her, it makes you forget what that means. That she's the person who threaded hooks through your heart, like you were a pincushion for her to stab, some idle hobby for her to pursue. She's the person who told you not to love her. No, she told you not to say it. She didn't care if you loved her. You're sure that she wanted you to. She's the person who wouldn't even kiss you. Who'd make you close that gap every single time, until you stopped doing it and demanded more from her. When you bribed her with faster fingers and sharper teeth.

But she's kissing you now, and her blood tastes so sweet.

You're starting to feel like a vampire again.

Hungry for her.

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**A/N: I know some of you miss the fishing metaphors, the hooks. That sort of thing. But there comes a time when everyone must put down their rod, and their now-empty can(s) of beer, and totter home, sure in the knowledge that there are plenty of fish in the sea. Although you're probably not going to catch any by fishing in the community swimming pool. That is how you caught your partner, though. Literally. They needed a lot of stitches from that hook. They put up a good fight though. And that's why, after you finally reeled them in, you decided to keep them.**

**And mount them on your wall.**

**Reviews are like fish food. Sprinkle some at the top of my bowl, and watch me kiss the surface of the water in sheer joy. Before swimming away, a long trail of poop drifting behind me.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Victorious is not mine, and soon it shan't be anyone's.**

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You're quiet in class. Cat's kisses have silenced you, rattled you out of character. Now you're not sure who you are. What you are. But it stings. It burns like salt on an open wound, and you thought you were all scars by now. You're starting to think you never really expected her to care. You never really considered it a possibility. Just some faint dream that kept you going, that let you kill your heart and bury it deep. And now Cat's unearthed it, brushed it off, and found a faint pulse still there. She cares. She does. She has to. The thought doesn't bring you a feeling of victory, of triumph. All it brings is fear.

Your hands are folded in your lap, entwined neatly. You're pulled together, spine straight, knees together. But you feel like a puppet that's just had its strings cut. What do you do now? What do you do if she cares? How do you nurture it, make it grow? Is that even what you want? But oh, the way she kissed you. You want that. You want more of her beating heart, her fluttering fingers, and you don't want them inside of you. You want to hold them, because she's scared to touch you. You want her feeling the same fear you felt with her, but not for vengeance, not for retribution. Why then? What do you do now?

You jump when the bell rings, startled. You look around, the other students starting to stand, slinging their bags over their shoulders. Among the students' colourful clothes, Jade stands out from her very lack of colour. She's perched forward in her seat, chin propped on a hand. She's watching you, but you wonder what she's seeing. Which Tori. The spider? The fish? Or just a girl, confused? Maybe she's just seeing what she couldn't be, what she couldn't turn herself into. You wonder if she's jealous of you, part of her is, you know. For simply doing something she couldn't. For tearing yourself to pieces when she couldn't bear to. For pulling those hooks out, where they still rust in her.

She's not your concern. And she hasn't been Cat's concern for a long time. Cat cut those fine threads that connected them a long time ago, as soon as love was put on her lines. Jade's love. She's a cautionary tale, a reminder of what Cat is, of how easily Cat can cut you free. You're not even tied to her anymore. A puff of her breath is all it would take. It's why you keep her gasping. You're not done with her yet. You're not ready for her to be done with you.

Your chair squeaks as you stand, bag banging into your ribs as you shrug it on. Jade passes you with a glance, a hand wrapped tight on the strap of her backpack. You've never noticed how small she looks in black. How her long sleeves cling to her arms, her black jeans stick to her legs. Her limbs are like those of an insect, thin and bent, held close. Cat's already caught her, wrapped her up, sucked her dry. She's just a husk, desiccated remains. She's what you are, without your armour.

You don't know what class you have next. Practical concerns have been shaken out of your head, replaced with question marks. But these questions dangle upside down, in the shape of hooks, and you're loathe to bite any for an answer yet. You follow behind Jade. You share most of your classes with her. There's only one you don't, and you think you had that one this morning. Cat's in barely any of your classes. Your interests are different.

You remember when the lights came back on. When Cat opened the door and let the light flood in again. You don't know what you expected to see. Blood, perhaps. Something to show what she'd done. It felt like something had broken, or something had been mended. Snapped apart and then stuck back together, unevenly. She'd only kissed you. That's all she did. Her hand never even slipped between your legs, and it was the first time you've wanted it to in a while. You haven't ached for her, throbbed for her, since the first time her tongue flicked over you. You wonder how it would've felt if her touch was the same as her kiss.

You're walking blindly, just following Jade's boots, your gaze fixed on the ground where they tread. Your eyes widen slightly as a realisation hits you. Cat's kiss... it was her. It was the girl she is in public, the innocent, naive, cheerful girl. It was how she would kiss. Her lips were made of all the sweetness in her, all the laughter that escapes them. She was the Cat you miss, your friend, and maybe for a little while, you were the Tori she misses. Is that the girl she misses? Her friend? Is that why she's doing this? Was it a kiss between friends, between the dead and amputated parts of you? An embrace between ghosts. You're not sure how that makes you feel. You haven't thought of Cat as anything for a long time. Certainly not a friend. A lover in act alone.

The thought of kissing Cat, of kissing that girl you first met, that girl you first befriended... it sends a tickle shivering through your stomach. You liked that girl. If you'd met Cat as she is now, with her brusque words and cruel smile, you never would've kissed her. The Cat you loved first was just bait to lure you in. But... what if she wasn't? What if that girl was real, was more than just a bright bobbing lure? She felt real, in that kiss.

It takes you a moment to realise that you've stopped walking, Jade's heavy boots unmoving, pointed towards you. You raise your eyes, Jade scowling at you. Your eyebrows dip down as you take in your surroundings. "Where are we?" You're certainly not in any class you're supposed to be in. This classroom is silent. Empty easels are stacked to the side of the room, a paint-speckled stool sitting atop a stage, a thin layer of dust across it. An art room that's become a storeroom.

"We're somewhere we can talk."

You shift your backpack. "Look, I've got to get to class."

Jade's eyebrows jump. "Oh? Really?" Her mouth twists. "What class is it?"

You chew your lower lip. "It's... um... it's-"

Jade laughs, the sound sharp and bitter. A cough of a noise. "So what did she make you do this time?"

You lick your lips. There's still a trace of her there, sweet. "She didn't-"

"Did you have to get on your knees? Push her up against the wall? Beg her for the pleasure to do so?"

There's a spurt of hot anger in you, that Jade can talk like this to you. That she can talk to you in a way that even Cat doesn't anymore. You're not that fish anymore, flopping about helplessly. No one gets to treat you like that, especially not a fellow flounder. "She didn't _make_ me do anything. _All she did was kiss me._"

Jade's eyebrows dip down for a moment, a retort starting, stopped as your words sink in. She was expecting the words, but not the order they came out in. Her eyes widen, jaw setting. "She... she kissed you?" Her tone is soft, a mixture of emotions that she tries to stamp down, that she tries to harden with a sneering edge. She fails. You can hear the confusion and pain in her voice. She knew you were different, Cat was different, she suspected and sensed. You've just confirmed it for her, realised a fear she didn't know she had until it sent her heart pounding.

You don't answer, regretting your outburst, your refutation that you're still scaled, still gasping on Cat's line. That you're anything like Jade now.

A muscle in Jade's cheek twitches, her arms coming up to wrap around herself. "It's not fair." She shakes her head. "Why you? Why does-" She clamps her mouth shut, trying to stem the vitriol that's pouring forth, the pus and dead cells that've accumulated in all of her old wounds, the ones that never healed. The ones that still have hooks inside of them, flaking rust. "Why does she care about _you_?" Jade spits, her arms squeezing tighter around herself. "When I- when I said-" She swallows hard, almost choking on the poisoned words. "When I said I loved her, do you know what she did?"

You shake your head. You don't know this story, but you know it could've been yours. It almost was. One more hook in your sieve of a heart, and your love would've poured forth, an unstoppable deluge.

"She-" Jade throat convulses in an effort to expel the word, to spit out the barb of metal that's dug deepest in her heart. "She _laughed_." Her voice chokes on the word, a cry of pain reluctantly given. A memory she's tried to make mean nothing. "She told me to leave, with a smile on her face. Like she was happy, like I'd said just what she wanted to hear. Like that whole thing with her was just some big joke and I'd finally told her the punchline." Jade's shoulders are tight, square, pulled in as much as she can, her figure made of harsh angles and held muscles. "_Why you?_ It's not fair, it's just not- why does she care about you?"

You wish you could tell her why. Give her some peace of mind, some concrete reason. You could tell her it's because you don't care about Cat. You could tell her it's because you give Cat what only someone who doesn't love her could give. You could postulate any number of reasons, and you'd have no idea if you were right. Changing yourself didn't make Cat care. It brought your name to her tongue and her fingers inside your panties, but Jade knows just as well as you that fucking doesn't equal affection. The caring in Cat's lips is something recent, and it's not from your coldness, your manipulation. It's from something else, some deeper place, some side of Cat you thought was fiction. A story told to warm the heart, to protect it from the harshness of reality. The cruelty of it. But there's a grain of truth to every story, isn't there?

"I don't know."

Jade makes a sound somewhere between laughter and disgust. "Of course you don't." Her arms slip away from her, loosened, like she's only just remembered she'd locked her muscles tight in an effort to keep from falling apart. A softness edges her face, her gaze falling. Anger is something she's proud of, something to direct at you. She feels righteous in it, but this is something else. This is something she's ashamed to ask, ashamed to wonder. "What was it like? To have her kiss you?" She licks her lips, and you want to tell her... you want to lie to her. To say that Cat kissing you wasn't any different from the way Beck kisses Jade. And maybe it isn't in sensation, but you're sure it is in feeling. Beck might have a hold on Jade's heart, but Cat got to it first, and her grip is still tight. His hand is just covering hers. Jade gives her head a quick shake. "No. Don't tell me. Just forget about it." She rolls her shoulders, drawing them in tight again. Her black top only emphasises their narrowness, their fragility, and you wonder how there was ever a time you thought she was dangerous. She's just a wounded animal, striking out in desperation. Cat's turned out to be the predator here.

Jade pushes past you, footsteps echoing in the empty. She's almost to the door when you say it. "It hurts."

You toss the words over your shoulder to her, an answer to her retracted question. Her hand flexes on the doorframe, a humourless chuckle escaping her. "Of course it does."

And then she's gone.

You're still not sure where you're supposed to be.

/

**A/N: We, as a society, have corrupted the idea of love.**

**Perhaps we knew once. Perhaps a caveperson looked at another caveperson and knew they never wanted to be in another cave ever again. That if they were going to die after a short lifespan, they wanted it to be with this caveperson, in that cave, probably from a cave-in.**

**But these days. Oh, these days. You try to ask someone what is love, and the only answer they have is baby don't hurt me, no more.**

**And that isn't love. That's a request for a restraining order.**

**Personally, I think love is something much simpler. Love is a review, for me from you.**


End file.
